


Gods and Monsters

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canonical Character Death, Horror, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to sleep and struggling to cope with the violence of his nightmares, Harry Potter finds unlikely solace when Severus Snape begins to appear in his dreams.  Harry and Severus cross paths again in the most unexpected of places, and it soon transpires that there’s more to Harry’s dreams than his memories of the war.  Dark magic, blood ties and a cruel curse force Harry and Severus to take difficult decisions about life, and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods and Monsters

_“In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an Angel living in the garden of evil  
Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed, shining like a fiery beacon” _

Harry dreams about Snape for the first time just before his eighteenth birthday.

At first it seems so real, Harry wonders if it’s a dream at all. The familiar scents of herbs, spices and ink waft through the air. The room is thick with shadows and smoke curls into the darkest corner, where a large cauldron bubbles. Snape’s wand moves back and forth in the cauldron, in precise circles. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise. Clockwise.

Harry shakes himself and tears his gaze from the wand which continues to stir the cauldron’s bubbling contents, guided by an invisible hand.

“Professor Snape?”

The room flickers at the edges, as rooms often do in dreams. The ground slides beneath Harry’s feet as sleep takes him deeper into the dream. He clutches on to a wooden desk and traces the wood beneath his fingers. His name appears in the grain, etched by the sharp point of someone else’s quill. His name sits next to a heart, which has a light pink hue as if someone took the time to colour it in while Snape’s back was turned. Harry traces his finger over that, too, wondering at the mysterious N and G ‘together forever’ in Harry’s dreams. 

The focus on the desk stops the room from shivering, and Harry looks up from the violent scrawl of his name. He takes in every detail of his surroundings, because wants to come back here if he can. He’s determined not to lose this dream when it seems important, somehow, that he stay here. He doesn’t want to end up flying over Azkaban again, at the end of Voldemort’s _Crucio_ or breathing soil into his lungs when they bury him in the Forbidden Forest. He wants to stay right here – in the classroom that smells like Hogwarts, and finally coming home. Harry rubs his forehead as his scar flares and a sharp pain stabs at his brow.

“Professor Snape!”

He speaks more urgently now, his voice loud in the still room. He needs someone to distract him from other dreams – the kind that make him unwilling to sleep anymore – the ones that fill with Cedric Diggory, snakes and Death Eaters chanting Harry’s name.

“You’re early.” Snape stalks into the room, his robes billowing around him. He Summons his wand with a flick of his hand and wipes the potion from the end with the end of his robes. 

Harry glares. Trust Snape to tell him he’s early to his own dream. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, but the room is still just as it was. Snape purses his lips and the shadows slide over his sallow cheeks. He withdraws his wand and aims it at Harry. 

“I’m not here for that.” Harry holds up his hands, his head throbbing. The last thing he needs is more Occlumency lessons. He’s almost rather be back in the Forbidden Forest, running until his feet hit the ground with dull, leaden thuds, and he can’t run quickly enough anymore. He’s a lot less brave in his dreams, because he knows the way they end.

“I know exactly what you’re here for.” Snape’s lips curl into an expression which is somewhere between a smile and a sneer. His lips part to reveal yellowing teeth and his hair falls into his eyes. He brushes it aside with one brisk motion, his robes sending dust rising and falling.

“Ever think about cleaning the place up?” Harry mutters.

Snape scowls. “This location was your decision, not mine. I can assure you, if we were in _my_ head, we would be somewhere far more palatable.”

“Why is it you?” Harry folds his arms as if to tell Snape in no uncertain terms that they won’t be duelling today, thank you very much. The room shivers again and Harry twines his hands together to feel the warmth of his skin and the beating of his pulse. “Why am I here, with you?”

“All in good time, Potter.” Snape begins to stir his potions again, the thick, coloured smoke rising and obscuring his face momentarily. “All in good time.”

*

A year after the Battle of Hogwarts they gather together to remember the dead. Shacklebolt tells Harry he should wear his Auror finest, emblazoned with medals and decorated with numerous awards for bravery in battle. Harry doesn’t feel terribly brave. He hasn’t slept properly for months, and his eyes are framed with dark shadows.

He makes some excuse to wear Muggle clothes, which sounds vaguely political in a half-hearted sort of way. He settles on a comfortable raggedy blazer he picked up from a Muggle charity shop. It reminds him of Remus and it’s just about smart enough to not look like he’s completely taking the piss. He puts a little bit of chocolate in the breast pocket, a wave of sadness overwhelming him and he says a silent _I miss you_ to the smiling faces of Remus and Sirius that flash before his eyes. He tries to do something – anything – with his unruly mop of hair and finally settles on a charm which barely holds and doesn’t make much difference.

When Harry arrives at the Ministry, it’s full of people from all walks of wizarding society. It’s a rare occasion that the opulent building opens its doors to anyone and everyone who wishes to be there. They all file around the memorial due to be unveiled that morning, in memory of the dead. They gather together in sombre lines while light bulbs flash in the background and Skeeter whispers to her quill in hushed tones, the tip scratching against the parchment. 

Harry takes his place towards the back, ignoring Kingsley’s wave. He doesn’t want to flank the Minister at an event like this. He wants to remember, and to grieve in private. He doesn’t want photos snapped of him looking world-weary and defeated, even in victory. He wants privacy and solitude and something else he can’t put his finger on – something to fill the aching gap left when the war ended. Harry bows his head and joins the lines of survivors, heroes and heroines. They observe a dignified silence to remember those lost in battle. When the silence ends, those gathered send light sparks from their wands into the air. Shacklebolt sends the cover on the memorial to the ground, adorning the foot of the bronze statue with a trail of rosy paper flowers which burst into bloom from the tip of his wand. 

Harry winces as he meets his own eyes staring back at him, focused and determined. His fierce expression is etched into the bronze, memorialised for all who enter the Ministry to see. He’s flanked by Ron and Hermione and he briefly catches Ron’s eye to see his chest swell with pride, while Hermione flushes to the tips of her ears. They twine their hands together and meet his gaze, giving him the kind of smile that only best friends can when they know the secret battles they had to face to bring Voldemort to his knees.

Light bulbs pop and they send sparks of yellow and orange off the war memorial, while the crowd erupts with awed whispers. The eyes of those around him shift in Harry’s direction, causing his cheeks to heat. The Order of the Phoenix take their places on the bronze statue – every last one of them – with Harry at the forefront, his wand arm outstretched.

He catches the eye of one person in particular. It’s as if the statue is staring right back at Harry, with bronze eyes fixed to his own. Severus Snape. His face holds the same expression it does in Harry’s dreams, when Snape is flesh and bone instead of cool, never-aging bronze. He looks younger, somehow than he ever has. They all do, with their fixed stares and smiles and grim looks of determination. There’s Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall, and a phoenix trapped in endless flight above a smiling Dumbledore with long flowing robes and flashes of gilded gold stars etched onto the heavy material. 

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest and anxiety wells in his stomach. It’s hard to breathe, and the huge hall feels too small and claustrophobic, as if the walls are closing in on him. The crowds push past Harry to get a better look. Molly Weasley traces her fingers over Fred’s name, her shoulders rounded and hunched as Arthur supports her with softly spoken whispers and a steady arm to keep her upright. 

The sound of Hermione’s voice in Harry’s ear startles him from his thoughts and she presses close to him, shoulder to shoulder. Ron appears on the other side and stands just as close, just as solid. They are both wearing formal robes and Ron’s in his Auror finest just as Kingsley wanted.

“We’re right here, mate.” Ron’s voice is gruff with emotion and Hermione squeezes Harry’s hand, just as she clutched onto Ron’s a moment before.

They’re the only thing that keep Harry from bolting. He steadies himself with their presence and remembers how to breathe.

“It’s nearly time,” Ron says. He’s watching his mum, worried.

“Time for what?” Harry looks past the statue to see a black robed figure standing in the shadows. He lifts a hand and points, frowning. “Hermione? Do you see that?”

“Shush, Harry. It’s time for Kingsley to read the names.”

Harry drops his hand and looks back to the solitary figure, but the once occupied space stands empty. 

Harry frowns and his gaze lingers on the now empty space, as the shadows move against the walls and Kingsley Shacklebolt reads out the names of the missing and the dead.

*

He dreams about Snape again, two nights later. The dreams are becoming increasingly more frequent and the settings strange, and unfamiliar. Harry is reminded of King’s Cross and the strange encounter with Dumbledore that was half real, and half not. He wonders if his dreams leave him trapped between some kind of afterlife and his real life with the living. They say you should never die in your dreams, but Harry does. Every single time.

“You again.” Snape doesn’t look thrilled to see Harry. He’s gardening, and his fingers are covered with dirt as if he’s been digging with his hands instead of the small yellow-handled trowel which sits discarded by the flower bed. 

“Me again.” Harry isn’t sure what to do, so he joins Snape at the flower bed, resting on his haunches and sliding his hand through the soil and letting it slip through his fingers. The scent of roses and the upturned soil remind him of his dreams where he breathes in dark earth and claws his way to the surface to try to find the light. “What are we planting?”

Snape shoots Harry a disdainful look and mutters something unpleasant. “We’re not planting anything, Potter. Keep digging.”

With a frown, Harry pushes aside the earth with his bare hands until the sun dips below the line of the rolling hills. It’s a small garden with a tiny, haphazard cottage at the end of it and a couple of pleasant looking seats set up to enjoy wine and conversation during sunset. 

“I’m tired.” Harry stops digging and wipes the perspiration from his brow, sure he’s left a dark streak of mud on his face.

Snape nods, as if he knows. His slender fingers continue to claw at the earth until they hit something solid. He breathes out, and relaxes. He extracts the small bottle and hands it to Harry, finally settling back on his heels and wiping his own brow. 

“What do I need this for?” Harry twists the cork from the small bottle and takes an experimental sniff. 

Snape snorts and rolls his eyes heavenward. “Foolish boy. It is your blood, and mine. I am simply trying to ensure you are prepared for the truth.”

Harry swallows and he puts the cork back on the bottle with a shudder. He glares at Snape as the air cools and night falls around them. “Why won’t you tell me anything? I’ve spent all afternoon digging your garden and you still can’t be civil. I hate you, Snape. Sometimes, I really bloody hate you!”

“Careful, Harry.” Instead of looking at Harry, Snape turns to contemplate the garden with a frown. His expression is pinched and uncertain, and his lips press into a slim line. “The flowers are dying.”

Harry looks around the once vibrant garden. Brown rose petals curl on the floor and the once tidy space is overgrown with weeds and creeping vines which stretch over the wooden fence and obliterate the colourful pink blooms. The air is cloying and heavy with the weight of an unbroken storm. 

“Stop this. Stop it, right now.” Harry tries to pull his wand from his pocket, but there’s nothing there but a fistful of dusty pink rose petals. 

“Look at me.” Snape’s voice has lost its smooth edge and his words leave his mouth with monumental effort, rough and rasping.

When Harry turns back to Snape, there’s blood on his clothes and his expression is caught between anger and pain. His slim, dirty fingers clasp at his neck and rivulets of red run through his fingers and onto the collar of his cream shirt. When he takes a breath it sounds laboured, and the huff of air leaves his mouth with a gurgle and a low, agonising moan.

Harry tries to uncork the bottle with shaking hands, somehow feeling it might hold a cure of sorts. Before he can get the bottle open the thunder claps and the rain begins to fall. Harry’s lips carry the coppery taste of Snape’s blood, and the dirt from his hands grinds between his teeth as he grits them and tugs at the cork with the overwhelming sense that it’s all _too late_. 

When Harry finally uncorks the bottle, the rainwater mingles with the salty flavour of his tears and Snape is nowhere to be seen.

*

Harry knocks lightly on the door to Kingsley’s office, sure he can hear muted voices from inside the room.

“Kingsley? It’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

The voices still inside the room, and when Kingsley responds he sounds cross. “One moment.”

The sound of a muttered curse and the familiar _whoosh_ of the Floo filters through the slight gap in the door, before Kingsley opens it with a frown on his face. “Come in.”

“Thanks. Was I interrupting something?” Harry looks curiously around the office and notices the faint smell of smoke from the Floo. “Somebody left in a hurry.”

“Just the usual Ministry politics, nothing for you to worry about.” Kingsley doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes and he shuffles his papers before looking up with a forced smile. “I’ve got a feeling I know why you’re here.”

“Is it that obvious?” Harry hands his carefully crafted letter of resignation to Kingsley. “I think I need to take some time to work a few things out.”

Kingsley peruses the letter briefly and pulls a face. “I’d be lying if I said we wouldn’t rather have you here. What are your plans?”

“I don’t know.” Harry settles into the seat opposite Kingsley’s desk. It’s still warm and there’s the faintest hint of spicy cologne which smells strangely familiar. “I just need to get away.”

Kingsley contemplates Harry with a frown. “It’s fine, of course. You have to do what’s right for you and it’s not as if you haven’t earned a bit of time away.” He pauses, as if he’s struggling with something and Harry notices for the first time how tired Kingsley looks. “I’m worried about you, Harry. I’d much prefer it if I knew where you were planning to go.”

“No need to worry about me.” Harry forces an overly bright smile, and winces when Kingsley arches a sceptical eyebrow. “I hope I’ll be back. I _will_ be back. I just need to leave the cameras behind for a bit. I’ll let you know my whereabouts as soon as I’m settled, I promise.”

“I understand.” Kingsley still looks worried and he leans forward, speaking urgently as if it’s the last chance he might get. “I want you to contact me immediately if anything peculiar happens. If you begin to feel unwell, if anything feels…off. Trust your intuition, Harry. It has served you remarkably well in the past. Do not trust _anyone_ you don’t know. Keep your friends informed of your whereabouts and keep your wand with you at all times, even if you plan to make your way in the world as a Muggle for the time being. I cannot emphasise enough how many people may still want to hurt you. Not everybody is as happy about the outcome of the war as you and I might be.”

“You think there’s something wrong with me?” An icy hand grips Harry’s heart and his stomach turns. 

“I have no idea.” Kingsley rubs his hand against his cheek and he contemplates Harry. “I have protected you from certain things while you have been under my charge. There has been some fairly unsavoury correspondence from people who wish the war had gone the other way. You helped with the investigation into the Dark artefacts found at Malfoy Manor. I am quite sure we – I – am worrying unnecessarily, but I want you to stay in touch. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Harry shook Kingsley’s hand and tried to ignore the sense of trepidation gnawing at him. “I promise.”

It’s only later, when he’s packing his clothes that Harry realises Kingsley’s slip. 

_We._

Harry opens the window to let in the cool night air, and thinks about the muted voices in Kingsley’s office and the strange, shadowy figure at the unveiling of the war memorial. 

A gust of wind makes Harry shiver, and he wonders who Kingsley was speaking to and why he looked so worried when Harry left.

*

“If you persist in disturbing my sleep on a regular basis, I will not be held responsible for my actions.” Severus has his back to Harry, and his nose is buried in a voluminous looking book which is nearly twice the size of his head. “But as you’re here, I suppose you may as well come in.”

“Where’s here?” Harry looks around the room curiously, with the strangest feeling he’s been here before.

“My study.” Severus closes the book with a snap and a cloud of dust rises from the musty text. He places the book on an already full shelf and gestures to a green leather armchair in the corner of the room. “Sit. You’re making the place look untidy.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry mutters. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, and moves another stack of books from the chair before sitting. “Your study at Hogwarts?”

“Yes, naturally.” Snape gives Harry a disdainful look. “We are obviously currently in a _castle_. Little twit.”

Harry bristles and he folds his arms, glaring at Snape. “I just arrived here. I have no idea where we are. For all I know this could be a room on the moon.”

“There would be a distinct lack of gravity on the moon, Potter.” Snape’s lips twitch and he settles into a threadbare armchair. He flicks his wand and a cup of tea appears on the table next to Harry with a plate of chocolate biscuits. He sighs and turns his eyes to the ceiling. “Of course. Naturally, it would be tea and chocolate biscuits instead of Firewhisky.”

“I’m not sure why you think I have so much control over these dreams.” Harry takes a chocolate biscuit nevertheless, because Snape seems to have unwittingly conjured up his favourites. “If I had control over what happens in my dreams I’d sleep a hell of a lot better.”

“Ah, yes.” Snape’s eyes bore into Harry, making him distinctly uncomfortable. “The nightmares.”

“I suppose you could call them that.” Harry shrugs and swallows a mouthful of biscuit, quite sure Snape wouldn’t appreciate him spraying crumbs over the books. “Besides, you’re not supposed to be able to use magic to produce food out of thin air.”

“I see the basic rules of magic haven’t passed you by, at least.” Snape snorts and Summons a biscuit, turning it over with a look of derision before taking a tentative bite. “Nevertheless, it seems your mind is full of endless possibilities.”

The room shivers and Snape’s form becomes less defined. The nightly sense of terror wells within Harry’s stomach and his chest tightens.

“Wait, don’t go. There’s so much I want to know.”

Snape continues to eat his biscuit calmly, as if he’s oblivious to Harry’s plight. “I’m not going anywhere. It is you that has to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Rising panic makes Harry’s voice shake as the darkness of the Forbidden Forest begins to creep into the room, a gust of wind blowing Snape’s papers from the desk.

“Now look what’s happened.” Snape tuts and he moves to his desk, rearranging his papers with his back to Harry. “You know what you have to do.”

“What do I _have to do_?” The armchair is whisked from beneath Harry and he’s standing on the dewy grass of the Forbidden Forest, his feet bare. The wind whips around him and the sound of advancing Death Eaters shouting his name fill the air. The only part of the comfortable study that remains is the small desk, and Snape tidying his papers.

Snape turns slowly, and his eyes are dark and flash strangely in the moonlight. His comfortable shirt and trousers have been replaced with long, black robes. He points towards a path which opens up in front of Harry’s eyes – a path that will take him deeper into the forest.

“Well?” Harry repeats, because he doesn’t know how much time he has left. “What do I have to do?”

Snape’s voice catches on the wind and his words wrap around Harry’s ears, filling his senses.

“ _Run_ , Harry. You have to _run_.”

With leaden feet, Harry runs towards the opening and disappears deep into the forest leaving Snape and the shouting Death Eaters behind as the air fills with his own heavy breathing and the whispering of the trees.

*

Grimmauld Place is dark and oppressive, even on the warmest of days. Kreacher always lurks in the shadows, and rarely comes out to do anything other than give the place a perfunctory dusting, glaring at Harry and muttering under his breath as he does so. Sometimes under considerable duress, Kreacher brings a small vase of pink carnations into the house which he arranges with careful precision on the mantelpiece. He whistles while he works until Harry catches him enjoying his job, and he slips back into the shadows with a murmur of derision.

Harry tries to keep his room tidy and clean and opens the heavy windows to let in a little fresh air, and the barest glimmer of sunshine. He showers and then rummages through his wardrobe to find something a little more casual than the second hand blazers he’s taken to wearing of late. He pulls out a pair of jeans which carry the soft scent of Molly’s favoured detergent. He brings the material to his face and a flood of memories fill his mind. He extracts a slightly lumpy knitted jumper from one of the drawers and tugs on fresh underpants and flicks his wand to retrieve a battered pair of trainers from the bottom of the wardrobe. 

When he’s fully dressed, Harry gathers together a few essentials. He picks up his wand – just in case – and shoves it into his pocket. He fills a small, cotton bag with a few necessary items and a few less than necessary ones like his old school scarf and a crumpled photo of his mum and dad – the things he hadn’t put in his suitcase the night before. He gives his owl a small roll of parchment and sends her off to Ron and Hermione’s place, letting them know he’ll be in touch once he’s settled. He pockets some money and puts one of the comfortable tweed blazers in his bag, just in case it gets chilly. 

He makes his way downstairs and opens up the door to let in a steady stream of sunlight which highlights the dust on the floor.

Taking a deep breath, Harry steps outside and closes the door behind him. He settles on a direction which just feels _right_ somehow and, after a moment of contemplation, he begins to walk.

*

The coach station at Victoria is loud and full of people queuing for things. The electronic ticket systems look a bit complicated, so Harry gets to the back of a particularly long queue and inches his way slowly to the front.

“Where to?” The vendor looks bored and barely meets Harry’s gaze as he rustles some papers in his hand and punches a couple of numbers into his computer. When Harry pauses before responding he glares and waves at the long line snaking behind Harry. “Hurry up, I haven’t got all day.”

Harry looks at the timetable in front of him and frowns. There are coaches all over the place, it seems. He can go all the way to Edinburgh for fifty quid, or take a coach to Wales and buy a cheap ferry ticket to get across to Ireland. He runs his finger down the list of possible destinations and settles on one which sounds as familiar as any other.

“Manchester, please.”

“One way or return?” The disgruntled ticket seller is back to punching words into his computer and muttering something to his colleague about taking a fag break after this. “Oi, are you deaf or something?” The man drums his fingers restlessly on the counter with a scowl on his face.

“One way,” Harry confirms. He waits for his ticket to be printed and listens to the directions carefully. He clutches the ticket in his hand, and tugs his bag over his shoulder before making his way to a large coach and another line of people waiting to start their journey.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a lighter, mate?” A scruffy looking man with rough stubble and a battered suitcase leans towards Harry when he takes a seat. His breath smells faintly of beer and mint chewing gum, which he takes out of his mouth and places underneath the arm of the metal bench. 

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.” 

“Not many people do these days.” The man sighs, and puts away his packet of cigarettes. He crosses his legs at the ankle. “You off home to see family?”

Harry swallows back the wave of loneliness which creeps over him and he shakes his head. “No. I just want to get away from London for a while. I’ve never been to Manchester before.”

The man looks momentarily surprised that anyone would want to leave London. “Great city, Manchester. If you like music and enjoy a good night out there’s plenty going on.” He appraises Harry briefly. “Canal Street’s a good place to start if you like that sort of thing.”

“Canal Street?” It sounds familiar, but Harry can’t quite place the name. His new found tour guide gives Harry a broad grin and claps him on the shoulder with a laugh.

“The Gay Village. No worries, perhaps I misunderstood.”

Harry’s cheeks heat and he looks down at his knitted jumper and ripped jeans with a frown, wondering how a scruffy looking stranger can take one look at Harry and conclude his trip to Manchester will probably involve gay bars.

Harry’s mind whirs and he folds his arms, remembering what Kingsley said about trusting no one. “Thanks for the tip. It’s good to know there’s lots to do.”

“Plenty.” The man stands, clearly having spotted someone with an elusive lighter. He pushes a crumpled piece of paper into Harry’s hand and gives him a wink. “Here’s my number if you want showing around. Enjoy Manchester.”

Harry opens up the paper, his cheeks heating further and nods. “Thanks. I will.”

The queue to board the coach finally begins to move and Harry makes his way onto the coach to find a seat. Once he’s settled, he pulls out a book and begins to read.

*

This time, the dream takes over Harry with relentless force. The steady hum of the coach travelling along the motorway disappears until all Harry can hear is the chatter of students as they move in blurred lines of green, blue, burgundy and yellow through the corridors of Hogwarts.

It’s the first time he’s been back to Hogwarts in ages, and he finds himself making his way to the dungeons as if there’s nowhere else he would rather be. He reaches a heavy wooden door and pushes it open, to reveal Snape at his desk marking papers with a mutter of derision.

“You always happen upon me at the most inopportune moments.” Snape puts down his quill and looks up at Harry with dark eyes, waving his hand to close the door with a loud thud. The magic and power fills the room and Harry drinks in every last bit of it, until he’s nearly dizzy with need.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Harry hovers close to the door and takes in the small, comfortable space feeling rather like he’s intruding on a private moment.

Snape stands and his robes billow as he stalks closer to Harry. He circles Harry in a rather predatory fashion and takes in his attire. “I see you came dressed for the occasion?”

Harry looks down at the same knitted jumper and jeans he pulled on this morning and wishes he’d thought to wear something a little more put together.

“I didn’t realise I had to make an effort.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Snape’s voice dips and his fingers slide over Harry’s arm, the touch burning even through the thick wool of Harry’s jumper. “I expect you believe I will entertain these foolish fancies simply because you’re the famous Harry Potter?”

“I don’t have any fancies.” Harry resists the urge to lean back into Snape who smells so _good_ and whose body heats Harry’s own. “I haven’t had time to change.”

“It’s your _dream_ , Harry.” Snape purrs in Harry’s ear and firm hands settle on Harry’s shoulders. “You can wear whatever you wish.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable, thanks.” It’s not true. Harry’s hot, uncomfortable and very much wishing he was in something altogether more adult than a badly knitted jumper and trainers falling apart at the soles. “Besides, you don’t seem bothered about my clothes when you’re making me dig up blood or run through the Forbidden Forest until I can’t breathe anymore. I didn’t exactly expect to be taken out for a fancy dinner.”

Snape turns Harry in his arms, and they stand toe to toe and nose to nose. Snape’s warm breath ghosts over Harry’s cheek and he looks so fierce, so dark in that moment it makes Harry’s body heat and shiver as he shifts closer to Snape. It’s almost too much to bear, being this close to Snape. Harry’s whole body responds like a puppet on invisible strings. 

His head is full of Snape, and it’s like being under the Imperius Curse, but Harry doesn’t want to resist. He’s tired, and he’s sick of fighting. He leans closer and Snape tilts his head almost as if he’s going to _kiss_ Harry. It’s so unexpected, so powerful that Harry places his hands on Snape’s chest to push him away but instead of pushing he tangles his hands in Snape’s robes and tugs him closer.

“I want…”

“Harry,” Snape interjects, a note of caution in his tone.

Before Snape can say anything further, Harry wakes with a start to find a curious looking passenger shaking his shoulder.

“Last stop, love. We’re in Manchester. Time to get off the coach.” A middle-aged lady in a cosy looking pink cardigan gives Harry a fond smile. “It must have been a good dream, you’ve been fast asleep since London.”

“Yeah.” Harry mouth feels dry and his head pounds. He gives the woman a weak smile and rakes a hand through his hair. “Something like that.”

*

Canal Street is like nowhere Harry has ever been before. He doesn’t bother changing out of his scruffy clothes, a decision he regrets almost immediately. The brick work is adorned with rainbows, and the pubs and clubs proudly fly rainbow flags. There’s nothing like it in the wizarding world, and Harry didn’t exactly do much clubbing in London.

He finds his way to a smallish bar and queues for his ticket, before pushing his way through throngs of people to the bar. He purchases something fruity, expensive and pink and earns himself a grin from the barman who wears thick black eyeliner and a t-shirt which is sinfully tight.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts before.”

“I’m just visiting. I thought I’d come and have a look around.” Harry’s cheeks heat and he mentally curses his body’s traitorous reactions to an innocent conversation.

“Look around?” The barman peruses Harry and his smile shifts from flirtatious to sympathetic. “Just curious, I suppose?”

“It’s not like that.” Harry’s hands are hot and clammy, and he stumbles over his words. His head pounds and his usual easy confidence seems to have left him entirely. His gaze lingers on two blokes laughing and snogging. He can’t pull his gaze from the sight and the barman chuckles, drawing Harry from his thoughts.

“I think you’ll do just fine. You sure you’re not a bit warm in that jumper?” The barman’s eyes light and they linger just a little too long on Harry’s chest. 

“I’m fine.” Harry tips his drink to the barman and moves away with a muttered thanks. He takes a seat away from the crowds and watches the couples and groups of friends dancing without a care in the world. He wonders not for the first time what he’s doing here, when he’s supposed to be settling down with a nice witch at some point soon. Perhaps this is why Ginny let him down gently, with a firm but sad look in her eyes. Maybe this is why she insisted Harry take some time to explore what he really wanted. Maybe this is what he needs to fill the gnawing gap which the war left behind.

“See anything you like?” A man interrupts Harry, his face chiselled and handsome. His blond hair falls over his eyes and he sweeps it back with a huff of annoyance. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Old enough to be here,” Harry replies with a frown.

“Good enough for me.” The man winks and he holds out his hand. “I’m Matthew. Pleased to meet you.”

“Neville.” It’s the first name which springs to Harry’s mind as he shakes Matthew’s hand. 

Matthew arches his eyebrow. “Neville? You don’t look much like a Neville.”

Harry takes a gulp of his drink and shrugs. “I didn’t know a name has anything to do with how someone looks.”

“No, but still.” Matthew tugs Harry from his seat and moves closer, his lips brushing Harry’s ear. His clothes carry the scent of a cool, expensive cologne and the lean, hard lines of his body make Harry’s heartbeat quicken. “Tell me, _Neville_ , have you got anywhere you need to be tonight?”

“Nowhere special,” Harry murmurs as Matthew’s lips trail inch by glorious inch along his neck and back up to his ear. 

“Maybe you and I should take a walk in that case?” Matthew’s lips hover over Harry’s and he brushes them with his thumb, giving him an intense stare. Harry is just about to respond when Matthew is unceremoniously hauled away from Harry, and stumbles backwards with a yelp and an angry “what the fuck, mate?”

“I’m afraid _Neville_ has other arrangements this evening.” 

A familiar voice slides through Harry’s veins and leaves his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.

“Whatever.” Matthew gives a disgruntled shrug, and brushes himself off making his way back into the crowds.

“You are as wilful and impulsive as ever.” Severus Snape folds his arms and fixes Harry with a dark stare, his face twisted with fury. “And you are coming home with me.”

“Is this a dream?” Harry shakes himself and he prods Snape in the arm. He certainly feels warm and solid, and his face doesn’t shift and flicker as it does in Harry’s dreams.

Snape snorts and he grabs Harry by the cuff of his jumper, effectively hauling him out of the club.

“No, Potter. I am your worst nightmare.”

*

They walk the short distance to a quiet alley in silence, before Snape takes Harry’s arm and Apparates them to a small village. His tone clipped and furious, he pockets his wand once again and mutters something about ungrateful little imbeciles. He’s dressed in Muggle clothing, but Harry has the distinct impression he’s rather missing having robes to billow angrily.

“You’re supposed to be dead. You can’t just interrupt a perfectly pleasant evening to go off on one at a complete stranger and drag me to the middle of nowhere. Why aren’t you dead?”

“Your enthusiasm is touching, Potter.” Snape looks left and right before pushing Harry down a narrow street, paved with cobble stones. He sneers. “I might have expected a warmer welcome considering I have spent too many years of my life saving your scrawny hide from yourself.”

The usual bubbling fury wells within Harry’s stomach, and his chest tightens. “And you don’t owe me any explanation I suppose? It’s fine for you to barge into my life and-”

“Idiotic, foolish boy.” Snape snorts and cuts Harry off mid flow. “You are familiar, I suppose, with the dangers the wizarding world currently pose to you? You are certain you would have been able to handle the dangers of the _Muggle_ world?”

“What bloody dangers? I was only having a snog. Or trying to,” Harry finishes, pointedly.

“And you were two minutes away from going for a walk with a complete stranger!” Snape grinds his teeth and flicks his wand to open the door to a tall terraced house, flanked on either side by endless rows of Muggle houses. “Muggle men have been murdered in that very spot because of their sexuality.”

“I’m not completely stupid.” Harry glares at Snape and follows him inside, his anger and frustration fuelled by his strong drinks. “I _am_ a wizard. A wizard training to be an Auror. I reckon I could fend off a Muggle.”

Snape rolls his eyes and closes the door behind them with a slam, shoving Harry into a small living room filled with books. “Insolent, arrogant foolishness. Even if you had the good fortune not to select someone with a darker purpose in mind – which given your history I very much doubt – you have, I presume, enough experience fucking Muggles to be aware of the dangers of unprotected sex? There are certain things being a wizard cannot protect you against and I suspect in those matters you remain woefully ignorant.”

Harry winces and he shrugs, his cheeks heating. “I’m not a child. Besides, I didn’t exactly plan to fuck anyone.”

Snape opens a bottle of Firewhisky and pours himself a glass, taking a deep, steadying drink. “You imagine your new friend simply wanted to show you the sights? I can assure you, he was not interested in a fumbling kiss and talking about the weather.”

Harry’s cheeks heat further with embarrassment and anger. “You’re so experienced, I suppose? I suppose you know all there is to know about fucking Muggle men?”

“Yes.” Snape puts down his glass, gazing steadily at Harry. “I have ample experience.”

Snape’s words send a flash of heat through Harry and he tries to push it to one side by pulling a face. “So you’re taking it upon yourself to help me come out of the closet, I suppose? You’ve come back from the dead to protect my virtue and teach me about gay sex.”

Snape pours himself another Firewhisky and mutters a clipped curse under his breath. “If you wish to seek sexual gratification from every Muggle that bears a passing resemblance to Draco Malfoy, far be it from me to stop you. That is not why you are here.”

“He looked nothing like Malfoy, for fucks sake.” Harry glares at Snape, who responds with another roll of his eyes.

“Yes, _that_ is the most important part of this discussion.” Snape gestures to a lumpy sofa in the corner of the room. “Sit.”

Despite himself, Harry obliges and sits on the brown leather sofa which is surprisingly comfortable. “Then why am I here?”

“You’re not behaving like a man who hasn’t seen me since I bled to death before your eyes.” Snape sits opposite Harry on an armchair, and crosses his legs at the ankle. He fixes Harry with a penetrating stare. “Perhaps I have been part of your…life…for some time now?”

“The dreams.” A chill settles over the once warm room, and Harry shivers. He swallows thickly and meets Snape’s gaze head on. “You were there too.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Snape looks away, his brow furrowed. “I suggest you help yourself to a drink, Potter. We have much to discuss.”

*

“I believed my role as a spy was over following the end of the war.” Snape scowls at Harry as if he is solely to blame for Snape’s misery. “I decided to start afresh and I declined to tell anyone of my movements, with the exception of Shacklebolt. The last thing I wanted was idiotic Aurors swooping into my home and taking me to Azkaban for _interrogation_.” Snape’s lips twist into a sneer and he sips his drink to steady himself.

“That wouldn’t have happened. You’re a hero. I spoke on your behalf.” 

“I suppose you want my thanks?” Snape snorts, and gives Harry another glare. “I would have thought it was the least you could manage.”

“It wasn’t easy for me, either.” Harry balled his hands into fists and resisted the urge to stand and start passing. “I didn’t want to be there anymore than you did. It takes courage to _live_.”

“Are you inferring I am a _coward_?” Snape’s voice takes on a low, dangerous cadence and his words are followed with a soft hiss. “Mind your tongue, Potter.”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort.” Harry tilts his chin and meets Snape’s gaze head on. “You don’t scare me, Snape. I’m not intimidated by you.”

“Foolish child.” Snape’s lips press into a tight line. “You, however, have hardly been _living_ by all accounts. I gather you dress yourself in your godfather’s old velvet and Lupin’s tweeds. You wear ill-fitting jumpers knitted by Molly Weasley which remind you of her deceased son. You surround yourself with dead things. Constantly.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry and he swallows thickly. The familiar rage which only Snape can elicit burns through his veins and his fingernails leave deep crescents in his palms as his fists tighten painfully. “You know nothing about me, or my life. It’s barely been a year since the war. I’m not allowed to grieve, is that it?”

“You have no idea how vulnerable you have made yourself,” Snape snaps. He stands and leans against one of his enormous bookshelves, his shoulders tense. “You have exposed yourself to Death Eaters and Dark magic without your usual strength of resolve. You have left yourself weakened by your emotions and when you sleep you become still weaker than most.”

Harry can’t help but snort, a fire he hasn’t felt for a long time giving him confidence. “That old chestnut. You told me that before, do you remember? You didn’t understand it any better than he did. Voldemort, I mean. You never understood _love_ , whatever Dumbledore thought. My emotions never made me weak – they helped me to fight a war, and win.”

“My, my.” Snape turns, his voice soft and furious. “How wonderfully self-congratulatory you are, Potter. How prepared you are to believe all of the adulations which are bestowed on you daily. How clever you believe yourself to be.” He pauses and he sits once more, crossing his legs and watching Harry closely. “I imagine next you will be telling me you have your reckless emotions under control. After the passing of the war, I expect you haven’t had cause to feel vulnerable or…unsettled.”

“Of course I’m bloody unsettled!” Harry knows he’s yelling, but he can’t stop himself because being around Snape always makes him revert to his angry, fifteen year old self. “I’ve lost people I loved the most and I’ve fucked up my relationships with just about everyone. I’m hardly sleeping and I can’t stop dreaming about the war.” He deflates and twists his hands together. “I don’t know where I fit anymore.”

“You’re lost, without your heroic purpose.” Snape smiles, but it isn’t a pleasant smile. It’s the sort of smile that makes Harry’s blood run cold. “You are ill prepared for the threat posed to your life.” He looks smug and settles back, tapping his finger against his lips. “That is where I come in.”

“My guardian angel,” Harry mutters. “More Occlumency lessons? I hope so, those were a real laugh.”

Snape narrows his eyes and he stops smiling. “Not precisely. Your path and my own appear to have become…entwined. If I have any hope of peace and quiet it is necessary for me to understand precisely what risks you have exposed us to with your moping and reckless behaviour.”

Harry is so angry he can’t breathe. His words catch in his throat, and all he can do is stand and clench his hands tightly by his side. “I might have known. This is all _my_ fault of course. You don’t want to _help_ , you just want to be rid of me so you can disappear again.” Harry’s mind flashes to the dream of Snape’s rooms at Hogwarts and the heady, unsteady rush of desire when Snape’s breath warmed his face. An ache of loneliness and frustration overtakes his anger, and he grabs his jacket pulling it over his arms. “Fuck you, _Professor_. Thanks very much for _nothing_.”

Before Snape can say anything further, Harry walks as quickly as he can to the door. He Apparates to a spot just by his hotel and tries to steady the rapid beating of his heart.

*

That night, Harry doesn’t dream about Snape.

Instead he finds himself in an opulent study which looks vaguely familiar. The books are expensive, leather bound tomes which wouldn’t be out of place in the restricted section. But there are no cages to protect readers from their content. Each one is proudly displayed, and a text on the Dark Arts sits open on a rich mahogany desk, adorned with opulent quills and the finest ink money can buy.

A round vase filled with pink roses sits on an ornate table in the centre of the room. Harry brushes his fingers over them, a sharp pain making him curse. He lifts his hand to see a droplet of blood welling on his thumb where a thorn caught his skin. He sucks his thumb into his mouth and tastes the coppery flavour of his own blood.

The room reminds him of one of the rooms at Malfoy Manor, but it’s different somehow. Where Malfoy Manor was shrouded in darkness after the war, this room is bright and light. Its contents speak of an altogether darker owner, but the sunlight streams through the window and glints off a collection of small china plates.

Harry picks up a heavy object from the desk and looks at it curiously, fighting back a sense of discomfort. The bronze ornament is just like the one unveiled at the Ministry, albeit on a smaller scale. Harry looks closer and notices something which makes him shiver involuntarily. The faces of the deceased Order members have been scratched with some sharp and pointed implement to the extent of obliterating their faces. Harry remembers his own name scrawled into the desk in his very first dream of Snape, and recalls the violence used to gauge his name into the wood with a particularly sharp quill.

_Careful, Harry. The flowers are dying._

Snape’s voice breaks through Harry’s thoughts, and he turns to the small bowl of roses. Instead of the gentle pink hue, each one now curls in the vase in a shrivelled brown. The petals fall onto the table as the window next to Harry opens on a restless gust of wind. 

The statue burns in Harry’s hands and he drops it to the floor, not failing to notice the scratches which begins to develop on the chest of the miniscule bronze figure of himself. His chest hurts and it’s hard to breathe, he needs air. He stumbles to the window and he reaches for his wand. He pulls it from his pocket and lets out a cry of pain as his fist curls around the wood.

He drops his wand with a curse, and looks at his hand which is covered with deep gouges each one drawing droplets of blood which drip onto the expensive rug in the strange room. 

When Harry looks at his wand, he notices that the stem is covered with thorns.

Snape’s voice sounds louder this time, insistent, dark and furious. Scared, in a way Harry hasn’t heard before.

 _Run_ , Harry. _Run_.

There’s nowhere else to go, and Harry climbs onto the window ledge. His hands grip the window and as the door opens he doesn’t look back before he stretches out his arms and allows himself to fall.

*

Before he hits the ground Harry wakes with a cry, his heart pounding in his chest.

He gathers his things together with trembling hands. He Apparates to the spot where Snape took him to only a few hours before.

The streets are narrow and dark. The wind whispers and the tendrils of the night stroke against Harry’s skin. He checks his wand, which is smooth and regular as ever. He keeps it clutched in his hand as he tries to remember the right way to walk, guided only by the moonlight and flickering yellow street lamps.

He turns to check behind him, the sense of being watched overwhelming him. He casts a quick _Revelio_ but nobody appears and the shadows barely flicker. With a curse, Harry continues to walk and the skies fill with heavy storm clouds.

He’s reminded of Dementors circling Azkaban, and his whole body feels cold. The clicking of smart heels on cobbles quickens behind him and he spins again, his wand arm outstretched.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!”

The footsteps stop, and Harry moves more quickly only for the _click, click_ to start again with increasing speed. 

“Harry Potter.”

He’s almost at the familiar door of Snape’s house when somebody else calls his name over the persistent wind. It catches on the cusp of a powerful gust of air, followed by a strange giggle and echoes down the silent street, reverberating off the walls and disappearing into the darkness.

Harry turns into the darkness and sees nothing but shadows moving like robes in the distance.

His hands trembling, Harry advances to Snape’s door and sees a round object propped on the doormat and resting against the black wooden frame.

A wreath. An assortment of deep pink flowers arranged in a careful circle, and in the centre a pile of decaying leaves and a small bronze statue of Snape, staring fixedly at Harry with holes where his eyes should be.

*

“Potter!”

Harry shifts in his bed, and blinks his eyes open to find an irate looking Snape glaring down his nose at him.

“Snape?” Harry rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up, looking around the dingy hotel room and frowning. “How did you get in?”

“You have created absolutely no obstacle which might restrict access for anyone with even a basic grasp of first year magic.” Snape perches on the edge of Harry’s bed. He looks tired, and his eyes are framed by dark shadows. The sight reminds Harry of his dream and he fights back the urge to reach for Snape because it’s bloody brilliant to see him alive, even if he’s a right pain in the arse.

“I thought something had happened to you.”

“Something _did_ happen.” Snape glares at Harry. “Shortly after you left I found my own wards breached. Somebody gained access to my home while I was sleeping and it was not an old friend seeking to reacquaint themselves with me. They know we are connected now, it is only a matter of time. You will not be safe in my home as I hoped you might.”

“How do I know you’re real?” Harry feels as though he’s losing his tenuous grip on his sanity and he clenches his hand, which contains no marks from the thorns which pierced his skin in his earlier dream. “I don’t know if I’m sleeping or waking these days.”

“Indeed.” Snape studies Harry momentarily before sighing, running a harried hand through his hair. “I have no advice for you, Potter. I suggest you stop behaving like a twit and start listening to offers of assistance. That, at least, would be a good start.”

Harry sits up on his heels, his heartbeat quickening. He takes Snape’s hand tentatively and squeezes it. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

“Yet here I am.” Snape looks at Harry’s hand in his own and light pink spots bloom on his cheeks.

“In my dream – the last good one I had – I think you were going to kiss me.” Harry holds his breath and he takes in the flush deepening in Snape’s cheeks. “Were you?”

“Your sordid dreams are not my concern,” Snape replies in a clipped tone. He extracts his hand from Harry’s and stands, turning his back to him. “We have more important things to concern ourselves with than your sexual awakening.”

Harry bites back a growl of frustration. He throws back the duvet and stretches, glad he at least packed some pyjama bottoms. “Fine, if that’s how you want to play it. Can I at least have a shower?”

“You may.” Snape looks at Harry once again, his face drawn and even paler than usual. “Then I suggest we go and see Kingsley as soon as possible. The Ministry has the resources to ensure you are protected while we attempt to halt events which have already been put in motion.”

“What events?” Harry grabs his towel and he gives Snape a small grin, because he really is happy to see him. “You make it sound like we don’t have any time.”

“We don’t.” Snape holds Harry’s gaze and his voice barely wavers. “If my assumptions are correct I believe we are both in significant danger.”

“Danger?” Harry’s stomach twists and his heartbeat picks up once again as he holds his breath, waiting for Snape to respond.

Snape’s face twists as if it hurts to look at Harry, and when he speaks his voice is cool and devoid of any emotion. “I strongly suspect that the next time you go to sleep, you will not wake up.”

*

They arrive at Kingsley’s office shortly after midday. Harry shifts in place, the burgundy velvet of his jacket drawing a look from Snape which he dismisses with a glare. It’s not up to Snape if Harry chooses to wear Sirius’ old jacket on occasion. He’s got more important things to think about than his stages of grief. Things like living to see his twentieth birthday.

“It is as we thought?” Kingsley looks harried and he turns to Snape as soon as he sits down. 

“I believe so.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Precious little.” Snape glances briefly at Harry and winces. “I do not believe either of us can sleep again until this is resolved. After a period of time our capacity to assist with this investigation in any meaningful way will have been compromised due to lack of proper rest.”

“And you have had time to tell Harry the detail of your research?” Kingsley looks to Harry, who replies with a shake of his head and a low growl.

“No chance. I don’t know a bloody thing.” Harry folds his arms and ignores the fact his response draws a snort from Snape and a low _tut_ from Kingsley.

“Go on, Severus. You are better placed to explain than I.” Kingsley waves his hand at Severus, who responds with a curt nod.

“As I have previously indicated to you both, I have reason to believe that at some point during the war my life and Potter’s life became intertwined.” Snape turns to Harry briefly. “I informed Kingsley of this shortly after your eighteenth birthday.”

“You’ve known about this for that long and never thought to mention?” Harry’s body heats with anger and he glares at Kingsley, who looks apologetic.

“We didn’t have any evidence other than-”

“Other than my word,” Snape finishes. “Which apparently wasn’t good enough for the great _Ministry_ when my name had been so besmirched by my role as Riddle’s right hand man.” He gives Kingsley a scornful look and he avoids looking at Harry. “There was, of course, no hope of convincing Potter at that point in time. He was wilfully ignorant and consumed with his own petty-”

“Enough!” Kingsley flicks his wand as Harry stands, leaving his legs kicked out from under him as he lands with a thud back in his seat. “Get to the ruddy point, Severus before you start another war.”

Snape looks very much as if he wants to counter Kingsley’s statement, but with a glance at the clock behind Kingsley he seems to remember that time to argue is not a luxury they have. “I began to conduct some research and as time passed it has become clear to me that Potter’s life was in considerable danger.”

“Again,” Harry mutters with a huff.

Snape pointedly ignores Harry and continues. “I am now certain that Potter was cursed before the end of the war. I believe my final interaction with Potter resulted in some of his blood entering my system. The result is, unfortunately for me, that Potter and I appear to have developed some kind of connection which means my life is now inextricably _bonded_ to Potter’s.” Snape finishes with a snort, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“You didn’t tell me any of this.” Harry clutches his wand and stands, ignoring Kingsley’s attempts to calm him. He shoves his chair backwards. “I’ve been in your company for _days_ and you’ve been stalking me all over the place and you didn’t think to tell me we were _bonded_?”

“Sit, Harry.” With a weary sigh, Kingsley gestures to the chair. “ _Please_.”

Harry sits back down, shoving his wand into his pocket. “When was I cursed? I think I would have remembered that, don’t you?”

“I should hope so as you carry a constant reminder of it every day.” Snape folds his hands in his lap and refuses to elaborate.

“My scar?” Harry’s hand hovers over the scar on his forehead and he shakes his head. “That’s not right. I know what that was, it’s how I knew how to defeat him…” Harry trails off, not willing to go further down the road of explaining his connection with Voldemort – not with Kingsley giving him an all too curious look and the flicker of interest in Snape’s eyes.

“Is that so?” Snape sounds intrigued and then seems to collect himself, waving his hand in Harry’s direction. “I was not referring to that scar. You have another, I believe?”

“I don’t think so.” Harry drops his hand and then stares at it, his blood running cold.

_I must not tell lies_

“It is my belief that Dolores had a special form of punishment devised for you and you alone.” Snape’s lips twist into a grim smile. “Inventive, certainly. Her magic is far more advanced than I had ever imagined…”

Harry rolls his eyes at Snape’s admiring tone. “You sound as though you want to start her fan club.” He glares at Kingsley. “Are you positive he’s on the right side?”

“Do be quiet, Potter.” Snape’s voice no longer contains the same kind of admiration when directed at Harry. Instead he just sounds cross. “I am trying to explain this predicament we are in.”

“ _Fine_.” There are a lot of things Harry wants to say to Snape but none of them seem helpful in terms of trying to get to the bottom of the curse. He grits his teeth and uses all of his resolve to bite back the desire to shout at Snape, not least because shouting at Snape makes Harry feel more alive than ever. He runs his thumb over the faint scar on his hand and tries instead to focus on what Snape is saying.

“It was not the first time I had considered the curse might have arisen from your exposure to the Black Quill,” Snape continues. “Yet I quickly dismissed it on the grounds that other students had been exposed to the same kind of punishment. It was only later that I realised Dolores had provided you with a particular kind of parchment which I believe she reserved for you alone.”

“We did some research after speaking to Severus about his suspicions.” Kingsley reaches for a file and pushes it towards Harry. “Poison pen letters were a big thing back in the day. Owls would take letters to Ministry officials who spoke out against Pureblood supremacy. The parchment itself was poisonous and led to instances of insanity and insomnia.”

“The reports of those who received such owls all talk about hallucinations and the victims were all insistent that their dream world started to bleed into their reality,” Severus continues. “I believe Dolores modified the concept in a way which interacted with her Black Quill. To combine the Dark Arts in such a manner – and with blood, no less – has led to this situation.”

“Why now?” Harry looks at the photos in the files, his body cold. There is one man in particular who looks no older than Harry is now. His eyes are glassy and unfocused and his mouth parts in a silent scream as he struggles against his bindings in a hospital which looks like St Mungo’s. Harry is strangely reminded of the posters of Sirius and the madness in the eyes of the prisoners of Azkaban. “Why did this start now?”

“I expect the magic was linked to You Know Who’s death.” Kingsley looks to Snape for verification.

Snape nods, his face pulled into a grimace. “He was very specific about wishing to kill you himself. That was not something he would have thanked any of his followers for taking from him. I expect the curse would have been triggered by a spell of some sort.”

“I interviewed her.” Harry’s hands are clammy and his mouth dry. He looks up at Kingsley, who nods slowly. “You remember?”

“I do.” Kingsley looks at Snape and pulls a face. “She was demented, or so we thought.”

“She grabbed my hand.” Harry swallows and clutches his hand to his chest, with Umbridge’s voice ringing in his ears in its insidious, sing-song lilt. 

_Must not tell lies, Harry_.

“The whys and wherefores are unlikely to help us now.” Snape stands and begins to pace. “The fact of the matter is we are left with precious little time to address how we stop the curse. Kingsley, I assume you have a team working on this?”

“A team and a half.” Kingsley gives Harry a wry smile. “I’ve reassembled the Order for this. Only the brightest and the best.”

“I want to help.” Harry looks pleadingly at Kingsley. “Please, I can’t just sit around doing nothing. I’ll fly to Azkaban and get whatever information we need.”

“And tire yourself out in the process?” Kingsley shakes his head firmly. “Out of the question.”

“Besides, it is far quicker for me to make the journey to Azkaban.” Snape’s lips curve into an unpleasant smile. “And _I_ am not bound by my sense of moral duty.”

“I didn’t hear that.” Kingsley stands with a grimace. “Go, if you must.”

Harry looks between Kingsley and Snape, and his stomach turns. He clenches his hands to his side and he tries to keep his voice level. “This is how it starts though, isn’t it? You turn a blind eye because you place more value on my life than anyone else’s, is that it?”

“This is not simply your life we are concerned with now, Potter.” Snape turns his dark stare to Harry, his lips pressed in a thin line. “Don’t interfere where you have no business.”

“I have _every_ business.” Harry chokes back a laugh which threatens to spill from his lips. Nothing about the situation is the slightest bit funny, and he wonders if he’s half-mad already. “It’s not bloody right and you know it. What’s the plan, Professor? A bit of _Crucio_? An _Avada Kedavra_ if she refuses to talk?”

“I have done all of this to protect _you_.” Snape grips Harry by his collar and snarls as he hauls him close. “You insolent, impudent _child_. I have spent my life protecting you, and I will do everything in my power to make sure you _live_.”

Harry shakes himself free, barely noticing Kingsley who clears his throat awkwardly. He draws himself to his full height, feeling saner, more confident and more powerful than he has in ages. “I am not a child. I stopped being a child a long time ago. I’m your equal, whether you like it or not and you have to listen to me just as much as you listen to Shacklebolt, McGonagall and whoever else.” Harry’s anger fuels him on and he notices the way Snape looks as if he’s been slapped, his face tight and pinched. “And I forbid it. I won’t let you go and torture _anyone_ for information, no matter how much they might deserve everything they get. Not in my name, _Severus_.”

Snape stares at Harry, his eyes flashing with furious anger and then he lets out a low snarl. “Then we will both die.”

The door slams hard enough behind Snape to send a china ornament on Kingsley’s bookshelf smashing to the ground. Harry winces and looks at Kingsley apologetically. “Sorry about that.”

Kingsley shakes his head and holds out his hand to Harry. “It is I who should apologise. You’re quite right, of course.”

“Thanks.” Harry gives Kingsley’s hand an awkward shake and then gestures to the door. “I’m going to try to find him.”

“Of course.” Kingsley settles back in his chair. “You will stay in the Ministry?”

“I’ll try. Depends whether he’s flown off somewhere else.” Harry shrugs. “Patronus should do the trick.”

Kingsley nods. “Very well.”

With a final wave at Kingsley, Harry closes the door to the office. He leans against it and closes his eyes, letting the cool air wash over him.

“Right then, Snape. Where the bloody hell are you?”

*

In the end, Harry has to take the Floo to Spinner’s End after checking every empty room in the Ministry. He returns to Kingsley and takes him at his word when he suggests that might be the best place to look.

“Evening.” Harry steps through the Floo with a stumble, to find Snape sitting on his sofa with a glass of Firewhisky clutched in his hand.

“Look who it is. The hero of the hour.” Snape looks up at Harry with a sneer. “I hope you’re satisfied with yourself?”

“Not particularly.” Harry helps himself to a Firewhisky and settles next to Snape. “At this rate I’m probably going to die before I’m twenty one and I haven’t even had a decent shag.”

“There’s nothing funny about the situation,” Snape snaps. He clutches his hand around his glass more tightly. “I have not fought a long and bloody war only to _die_ promptly upon the Dark Lord being killed.”

“Tell me about it.” Harry sips the liquor which burns his throat and he rakes a hand through his hair. “I trust Kingsley. If the Order are working on this…well, I trust Hermione and Ron most of all.”

“Don’t you think you should be at the Ministry saying your goodbyes to these valued friends of yours?” Snape scowls at Harry. “Instead of sitting here irritating me.”

“Perhaps,” Harry acknowledges. “But I don’t want to leave you just yet.” He yawns and shakes his head. “Besides, I’m about ready to sleep and you’re the only person who makes me angry enough to keep me awake.”

“I’m thrilled to hear it.” Snape puts down his glass. “I trust you will not allow yourself to succumb to sleep, however tempting it might be?”

“You’ll just have to stay with me, to make sure I don’t.” Harry meets Snape’s gaze with the hint of a smile. “I know you wanted to kiss me. In that dream. I wanted to kiss you too, could you feel it?”

“Certainly.” Snape’s lips twitch and he glances at Harry. “You are a teenager whose body typically reacts as one might expect, when offered such opportunities.”

Harry’s cheeks heat and he lets out a soft laugh. “Kinky bastard.”

“Perhaps.” Snape makes no attempt to deny it. “I had no complaints at the time.”

“No?” Harry’s breathing falters and he shifts closer to Snape. “And now?”

“A goodbye fuck, Potter?” Snape arches his eyebrow at Harry and he trails a slim finger along the line of Harry’s cheek, sending shivers through his body. “Is that what I am to become? The man who gave the Boy Who Died his final moment of pleasure?”

“Don’t say it like that.” Harry’s eyes sting. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then tell me what it is.” Snape’s lips brush Harry’s ear as he leans forward, his hand twisting in Harry’s hair. He tips Harry’s head back slowly and brushes his lips to Harry’s neck. “Tell me what _this_ becomes when we both survive.”

“It becomes…” Harry struggles to speak as Snape continues to place maddening kisses along the curve of his neck. “Dinner and a drink. Learning how to get on when we’re not in mortal danger.”

“A monumental task indeed.” Snape laughs against Harry’s neck, and the sound warms Harry to the tips of his toes. “Yet you realise at this moment you’re behaving like a man who wants to be fucked before he dies?”

“Perhaps,” Harry acknowledges. He slides his hands over Snape’s back and bites back a groan when Snape’s teeth graze over his exposed skin. “But as you’re not bound by a sense of moral duty I sort of hoped you’d be up for it.”

“Did you indeed?” Snape’s smiling again and it delights Harry. He finds himself pushed back onto the sofa, and Snape settles over him. Snape watches Harry with dark eyes and slides his hand between them to press the heel of his palm against Harry’s cock. “They do say you never forget your first. Are you prepared to go through life fucking those blond Muggles of yours and remembering that _I_ was here first?”

“I’ll cope.” Harry laughs softly and he arches into Snape’s hand with a groan. “Besides, I’ve gone off blonds.”

“ _Good_.” Snape’s voice is a low, rich purr in Harry’s ear. “I want you to remember every moment. Stay with me, Harry. _Open your eyes_.”

It’s better than all of his dreams, and a million miles away from his hurried wanks in the shower. Harry’s body responds involuntarily to every stroke, every caress and every kiss. Snape divests him of his clothes with remarkable speed and Harry can’t help but wonder if Snape wants this as much as he does.

“How long have you wanted to fuck me, _Professor_?” Naked and aching hard, Harry watches Snape slip out of his clothes before he settles back over Harry.

“Long enough.” Snape replies, with rare honesty. He nips at Harry’s ear. “You were legal, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“I wasn’t worrying.” Harry’s reply gets cut off by Snape’s hand, wrapping firmly around his cock. “Hang on, I won’t last if you-”

“Hush. I know.” Snape slides his tongue along Harry’s neck and down, tugging his nipples into his mouth one by one. “We have plenty of time.” 

He makes his way down Harry’s body and flicks his tongue over the tip of Harry’s cock. When he engulfs Harry in tight, wet heat, it’s almost more than Harry can bear. Snape works his tongue over the underside of Harry’s cock as he sucks him down into the back of his throat. Snape’s long fingers travel in relentless patterns of Harry’s hot skin and Harry clutches onto the cushions at his side, speaking in a rush of _please, please, please_ before his body arches and he’s climaxing harder than he can remember. His body shudders with pleasure and he collapses back onto the cushions, his breathing hot and heavy.

“I should call you Severus,” Harry observes after a suitable time has passed and he can breathe again.

“Unless you prefer Professor.” Snape – Severus – smirks and slides his tongue over Harry’s nipple. He makes his way along the line in the centre of Harry’s torso and captures his lips in a heated kiss. Harry responds with a groan, unable to believe his body is already showing interest in a second round.

They kiss and murmur to one another about the past, the seriousness of their conversation punctuated with kisses and low, fevered groans. The kisses become more frequent and the conversation less, until Harry finds his body fully able to respond to every touch and kiss from Severus once more.

“Are you ready?” Severus flicks his hand to retrieve a bottle of lubricant, and he slicks his fingers slowly. He fixes Harry with his usual dark stare, his eyelids heavy with arousal.

“As I’ll ever be.” Suddenly nervous, Harry grips onto Severus’ arm and halts his movements as he moves his hand slowly underneath Harry. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” Severus slides his slick fingers between Harry’s buttocks and pushes one finger slowly inside him with a low groan of appreciation. “In the best possible way.”

Harry decides to stop asking questions because whatever Severus is doing with his fingers feels fucking _incredible_ and his body perspires and aches with need. By the times Severus begins fucking him with hard, deep strokes, Harry’s head spins and he thinks he can’t take any more.

“Please…I want you inside me…I’ll come again.”

“I’m already _inside you_ ,” Severus murmurs. He slips his fingers out of Harry nevertheless and he slides his hands over Harry’s legs, moving them to his shoulders. With strong hands he tugs Harry a little closer and he slicks his cock with a couple of quick strokes and a muttered curse. He presses against Harry and moves into him with a hard, deep thrust. “ _Harry_.”

Harry wants to respond. He wants to tell Severus that he’ll never forget this if he lives to be a hundred. He wants to tell Severus that _this_ is everything. That the aching gap left by the war is full of Severus. That he wants them both to live for as long as wizards often do. He keeps his mouth shut in case he ends up declaring his undying love, or crying or something stupid. Instead he closes his eyes because it almost hurts to look at Severus and to see everything he wants reflected in the depths of Severus’ eyes. He clutches onto the cushions beside him again, as the ache lessens and the pleasure begins to overwhelm him. 

“Stay with me.” Severus brushes his lips to Harry’s and enters him again with another deep, hard thrust. “Look at me.”

Harry opens his eyes and Snape is right there, kissing him and gripping onto Harry like he never wants to let him go. Harry loses himself in the insistent kisses and as the sex becomes harder and more urgent, Harry makes himself a promise.

He promises himself that they will _live_.

*

Hermione keeps giving Harry a strange look when he shifts in his seat with a wince. Sometimes he regrets having a best friend as smart as Hermione. Not all the time, but definitely when it comes to his sex life.

“You’re sure everything’s okay, Harry?”

“Quite sure, thanks.” Harry can imagine the smirk on Severus’ face and he can almost feel dark eyes trailing slowly over his body. Sure enough, when Harry looks up Severus is licking coffee foam from his lips in a way that can only be described as obscene and his eyes are fixed firmly on Harry.

“Hermione’s right, mate. You seem a bit out of sorts.” Ron furrows his brow and drums his fingers on the table. “Where the fuck is Bill?”

“He’ll be here.”

Disaster averted, Harry can breathe again. A booted foot nudges against his own under the table, and Harry can’t help but grin at Severus and nudge him back. 

“Sorry I’m late.” Bill comes into the room with an armful of books, and Kingsley close behind. “Are you two getting along better now?” He gives Harry and Severus a pointed look. “We’re going to need both of you on board.”

“I’m sure we will manage to control our tempers,” Severus replies smoothly. “Potter and I took a little time to put our differences to bed, isn’t that right, Potter?”

Harry flushes again and he bites back a groan. “Yeah. That’s what we did.”

Confused, Bill looks from Severus to Harry and back again before shaking his head. “Good. That’s brilliant.” His expression softens and he claps Harry on the shoulder before he sits down. “Good to see you, Harry. We’ll sort this, don’t worry.”

“I know we will.” Harry gives Bill a smile and remembers his promise to himself.

His promise to _live_.

*

The sun has long since set on the day, and Kingsley’s expression is sombre. “There is no other way? You are quite certain?”

Hermione’s cheeks are streaked with tears and she shakes her head, looking pleadingly at Bill as if doing so might help them discover something they both missed. “It’s all here in the research.”

“So that’s it.” Harry’s stomach turns and he looks at Severus. He’s quite certain in that moment that he loves Severus so powerfully, so unquestioningly, he would do anything to let him live. 

Anything but that.

“Dolores Umbridge has to die.” Severus stands and he pockets his wand. He gives Harry a fierce look and he consults the room. “If there is nobody else who is prepared to take the necessary action, then I will take great pleasure in being the one to do so.”

“And your soul?” Harry looks up at Severus, who meets his gaze head on.

“My soul is more damaged than you wish to imagine, Potter. I have far more to lose than that.”

“I won’t allow it.” Harry speaks quietly and Kingsley slams his fist against the table.

“You can’t make that choice, Harry. This is not your decision alone. On balance-”

“On balance?” Harry snorts and he shakes his head. “What about all the people who died during the war? Does everybody in Azkaban deserve to die?”

“Yes,” Ron replies, shortly. His cheeks turn red and he looks at Hermione with a shrug when she mutters to him under her breath. “You know what I think. If you’re asking me to choose between Umbridge and Harry, what other choice is there?”

“There’s a choice to do the right thing.” Harry looks to Hermione for support, but she appears to be as conflicted as everyone else. He looks at Ron who becomes uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “We didn’t fight for this, did we? A bunch of people sitting in the Ministry deciding who lives, and who dies?”

“No,” Ron agrees. He pockets his wand and places his hand on Hermione’s shoulder. He exchanges a look with Kingsley and then he looks at Harry. “The decision has to be Harry’s.”

“I agree,” Hermione says quietly.

Severus’ lips pinch into a tight line, and he stares at Harry. “Do you presume to decide for me also?”

“No,” Harry says quietly. He looks at Kingsley and then stands. “Do you agree that Severus and I should have the final word?”

Kingsley looks torn, and then he nods. “I do.”

Harry moves to stand next to Severus. Not caring what people think anymore, he takes Severus’ hand in his own and meets his eyes. Harry’s eyes sting with tears and when he speaks, his voice is rough and broken. “Could you give us a moment?”

The door opens and those gathered file outside, but Harry and Severus don’t break apart until the door closes with a quiet click.

*

“You have made your decision?” Kingsley looks up when Severus enters the room.

“Can we see Harry?” Hermione clutches Ron’s hand and he slips an arm around her shoulder. 

“In a moment.” Severus nods and gives them a brittle smile. “He is…hoping to say his goodbyes.”

“This isn’t fair.” Ron’s voice cracks and his voice is laced with fury. “There must be some other way?”

“We agreed that Harry and Severus have the right to choose.” Kingsley doesn’t move from his seat and he keeps his gaze on Severus. “And they have done so. Isn’t that right, Severus?”

“Yes. But I believe in the benefits of intensive study. A further night with those books might, perhaps, unearth an alternative solution.” Severus keeps his expression carefully blank and turns to Hermione. “Isn’t that right, Miss Granger?”

“But we’ve looked-”

“That’s right.” Ron wipes his arm across his eyes and gives Severus a firm nod. “We’ll think of an alternative.”

Bill exchanges glances with Ron and Hermione, who still looks uncertain. “Now that I think of it there is, perhaps, a potion we might have overlooked.”

“And it is critical that this remains out of the press. It would not do to attract any adverse publicity. It would not do _at all_.” Severus turns back to Kingsley. “You know what must be done.”

The room stills and Kingsley breathes out with a sigh. “I do.”

“Then see to it.”

*

Harry’s body aches in the best possible way. He turns to Severus who stares at the ceiling, and leans forward to kiss his cheek with a sigh of contentment.

“I’m going to shower. The sun’s up, and I want to do everything we can manage today.” Harry’s happy mood falters but he swallows back the desperation and sadness which threatens to overwhelm him. “You’ll come with me for all of it?”

“Very well.” Snape props himself on his elbow. “If you would like me to scrub your back, please do feel free to shout.”

“I’ll do that.” Harry laughs, and gets out of bed. He lets the warm water from the shower slide over his body and finally dries himself with a pink fluffy towel which is just to the left of the toilet. He shakes his head with a chuckle. “ _Pink_? Well I never.”

He bounds onto the bed and settles over Severus, giving him an enthusiastic kiss. “Morning. Again.”

“You’re like a puppy dog.” Severus pulls the pillow over his head and mumbles underneath it. “Which is not a compliment. I am not fond of boundless enthusiasm in the morning.”

Harry laughs and tugs the pillow from Severus, sliding his hand down Severus’ chest and lingering above his cock. “Not even if I’m _very_ enthusiastic about starting the day as I mean to go on?” 

Severus smirks and he tugs Harry down into a firm kiss. “Perhaps in those circumstances I can make an exception. After coffee, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Harry slips out of bed and pulls on his trousers, buckling the belt. “I’ll make it.”

“Fine.” Severus’ eyes trail over Harry’s body and his lips curve into a half smile. “I take my coffee black, served by naked war heroes with an insatiable desire to be fucked repeatedly over the course of a twelve hour period.” He rolls onto his back and pillows his head in his hands. “No sugar.”

“I’ll see if you’ve got any of those hero things in the cupboard.”

*

When the door closes behind Harry, Severus flicks his wand to let in an official looking owl. The owl drops a piece of rolled parchment on the bed and Severus picks it up, unfurling it.

_It is done._

_I believe Hermione Granger and the Weasleys will pay a visit this afternoon with a solution. Be sure to be home._

_K.S._

Severus flicks his hand and watches the parchment catch fire and disintegrate into ash on the floor. With another muttered spell he dispenses with the ash and makes his way to the shower, whistling as he goes.

*

Harry puts the cast iron kettle onto the stove, lighting it with a flick of his wand. He opens the curtains and closes his eyes to allow the sunshine to bathe his face with its warm glow.

The sound of the kettle whistling jolts Harry from his thoughts and he opens his eyes to look out into the garden.

He frowns and the kettle continues to whistle persistently as Harry presses closer to the window. The sun dips behind the clouds and the air in the room chills.

Harry swallows as he takes in the flowers in the garden. 

Across every bit of fencing, rose bushes cling to the terraces.

The sun appears again from behind the clouds, and illuminates every petal which tint the ground with their dusty pink hue.

_~Fin~_


End file.
